Insanity
by SerenityJane
Summary: Jack and The Master discuss the fate of Torchwood Three in general, and Ianto in particular. There's some violence, a swear and implied slash. Spoiler warning for finale of DW season 3 and some for TW season 1. Please comment. Critizism is welcome


"Good morning, Jack!" I woke immediately, as I did every time I heard that too-bright, too-chirpy voice.

"Good morning," I replied, striving to match his cheerful tone, ignoring the oddly mingled dread and anticipation, the acid churning in my empty gut.

"Ah, you managed to get some sleep. Good." He walked further into the room, stopping just out of reach. "I have the impression that it's been awhile since you've needed to sleep so often." He smiled at me, head cocked slightly to the side as he ran his eyes down my outstretched body. "I hope I am not exhausting you too badly."

I shuddered inwardly under that probing gaze, as I wondered what he had planned for me today, what thoughts were lurking beneath those beautiful, dark eyes. I thought he would have run out of ideas by now. Or at least become bored. Under normal circumstances, creativity and single-mindedness were traits that I greatly admired. And enjoyed. This situation was an unwelcome exception.

The other man moved slightly closer, stopping just out of reach, the toes of his shoes protruding an inch beyond the invisible line on the concrete, the one that ran from that crack in the ground that reminded me of Myfanwy, wings outspread and soaring over the Bay, and the corner of that rusty brown stain by the right wall, the one that always made me think of Ianto, bent over and scrubbing at the floor of the autopsy room, somehow still managing to look dignified despite being knee-deep in alien intestines. I wondered what that says of me, that a dried blood spatter could make me feel so at home.

He leaned forward, and I was certain I could reach him. So close, I could reach out and touch him, I could reach out and . . . I forced myself to be still, unmoving. We had danced this dance before, and the outcome was always the same. The loud metallic cough, the sudden jerk, then the emptiness. And though part of me cried out for that release, that temporary escape, the greater part, either braver or just more masochistic, wanted to draw this out for as long I could. Get as much information as possible.

He stood there for a few moments, watching my face. I glanced at the ground, at the invisible line, then looked back up. He was too far away, I told myself sternly. Eventually he sighed, as though disappointed that I hadn't tried. "Maybe I have been going a bit hard on you lately," he murmured as he stepped back.

"Maybe you haven't been going hard enough." I replied, making my tone suggestive. It was what he expected, after all. And it wasn't as though he was bad-looking. The opposite, in fact. I'd flirted with far worse . . . the insanity was a bit of a turn-off, though. I determinedly ignored the queasiness I felt at the thought of him touching me.

He snorted, amused. I felt ashamed at the rush of relief I felt, even though I knew it was a perfectly normal reaction. He did not like to be disappointed, and he had very painful ways of making his displeasure felt.

He had once had my hands and feet crushed in a vice, then taken a knife and cut my chest into cubes of meat, like I had done with those mangoes I had eaten while I was in Australia a few years ago. He hadn't killed me that time. He had stood next to the hospital bed and watched as the wounds healed, so slowly that I could feel my bones re-knitting, feel the muscle fibres in my chest writhing like worms as they tried to reattach themselves. He had had his minions set a mirror above the bed, so I could watch as well. He hadn't seemed to take any pleasure in the agony that made me howl like a burning dog, made the veins in my forehead stand out like ropes, or the sickening sight of my bones writhing and jerking their way back into their correct positions. There had been no malice, no hate, nothing in his features but avid curiosity. His expression had reminded me so much of my Doctor, my curious, funny-eared, beautiful Doctor, that it made me want to scream. Except that I was already screaming. 'I wanted to see which would heal first,' he had told me when it was over.

"Lucy is the jealous type, I'm afraid," he replied.

There was silence. I never could stand silence.

"So, what are we doing today?" I asked.

"I thought we might have a chat."

I was unable to suppress a guilty thrill of anticipation at his words. I didn't understand why he did this. I knew I shouldn't enjoy these discussions, these updates on their lives. I should be disturbed and worried about how close an eye he is keeping on then. And I was worried. I kept wondering what would happen, if he brought them in? I told myself that there was nothing I could do, anyway - I couldn't protect them, locked up in here. The only thing I could do was get as much information from him as I could. Besides, who could blame a guy for wanting to know what was happening to his family?

So far, they seemed to be doing an uncharacteristically good job of _not_ working out what was happening, which was probably the only reason he hadn't 'disbanded' them. He also seemed to be finding them useful. I was grateful that they were alive, and at the same time I felt sick at what they had done, what they had been ordered to do. At first I couldn't believe it. I didn't believe any of it, until Tish Jones confirmed his words.

It was slaughter, out there. Xenocide. Every alien being on the planet was being hunted down and destroyed. All but the Toclafane, who assisted with the search and the destruction. Aliens were killed on sight, their bodies transported out onto the moors and burned in pyres. From Tish's descriptions, the pyres were huge, massive things. I had never known how much alien life existed on earth before it was all destroyed.

Torchwood Three was widely praised as being the most successful of the hunters. The words were burned into my mind, his praise for my team. He called them "my efficient little murder squad, my beautiful little monsters."

There were no more weevils left. Owen and Tosh had created an entirely new disease, targeting them specifically. He had been so gleeful when he told me this. He said that, after the disease was released into the weevil population in the Cardiff sewers, you could actually feel the ground beneath your feet vibrate from the strength of their dying convulsions. The weevils had been the last, apparently. "You should be so proud, Jack," he had said to me, with that horrid enthusiasm of his. "Your team are personally responsible for the deaths of the entire alien population of Cardiff and Wales."

When I was first told about Torchwood Three's success at its new mission, it didn't seem real, that my team could do this. Gwen, who was always so gentle, so caring. So determined to fix things that were better off left alone. Tosh, who was so sweet and serene, who placed such value on honour. Who had fallen in love with Mary, and stayed that way, even after discovering what she was. Who was always so full of wonder at every new discovery. And Owen . . . honestly, I could have believed it of Owen, in some circumstances, but he was still with the others, and they would surely have dissuaded him. And Ianto, who on the surface was so calm and emotionless, yet his actions revealed how much he cared, and his body confessed his passion. He could be so cold, but I had never seen him kill without good reason.

Everything I had learnt about my team, about people in general told me that they were not capable of this slaughter. I had been wrong about people before. I had been wrong about Suzie, and I had misjudged Ianto from the beginning. But I couldn't believe I was so wrong about this.

I never believed it, until he told me about a conversation he had with them after I left.

'I wish you could see them, Jack.' He had said to me, a gleam of maniacal glee in his eyes. 'You would be so proud! It only seemed fair that I take them under my wing, since I am the reason you've been unable to look after them. They've taken to the new mission for Torchwood far better than any of the other teams. Of course, they do have better motivation than the others. What would that be, you ask? Revenge, of course. Oh, Jack the tale I spun for them. It was so beautifully intricate, worthy of the bard himself. A tale of torture, kidnap, degradation, murder and last words spoken of undying love.' He had leaned close and whispered into my ear, 'They're doing it for you, you know.'

I glanced at a sudden movement in the doorway, and saw one of his bodyguards enter, carrying a chair. I examined the guard closely, wondering if I had met her before. She looked slightly familiar . . . her hair was pulled too tightly back from her face, and the cut of her uniform was too sharp, but she was beautiful, tall, and empty

"Your chair, sir," she said robotically, with no inflection. She set it down against the wall, directly opposite me. He turned towards her, stood up on his toes and gave the girl a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, dear." Her expression did not change.

"You're welcome, sir." She bowed slightly then left the room, without a glance in my direction. Watching her, I felt a twinge of homesickness.

"Recognise her, do you, Jack?" he asked, settling himself down in his seat. I shook my head carefully, but even that small movement rattled the chains against the wall. The clanking had been driving me insane. I doubted I'd ever be able to enjoy bondage games again.

"Torchwood One?" he continued, trying to jog my memory. "One of the thirteen remaining survivors of the Cybermen Incursion?"

"There were twenty-three survivors." I replied, warily, as I wondered where he was going with this.

"Originally, yes. Now, there are thirteen." He held up his hands, ticking the dead off one by one, "Four of them committed suicide after quitting, despite the memory removal." He pulled four fingers down against his palm, the black of his nail-polish stark against the pale white skin. "Three have been killed on the job," the final remaining finger on his left hand fell, so he lifted his right hand, dropping two more fingers. "One has been missing for thirteen months, and is assumed to be dead. One was murdered . . ." He paused dramatically, pointing the remaining finger towards me. "Ah. I'm one short, aren't I?" He looked at the finger carefully, as if he had never noticed it before. Then he looked at me, dark eyes boring into mine. "The other is a dead man walking."

I kept my features still, telling him nothing, though there was little I could do about the blood I could feel draining from my face.

He giggled, then placed a hand over his mouth, as if to keep the grating sound inside. "I've always wanted to use that line," he explained. He sighed, as he ran a hand through his hair. "I underestimated your team, Jack." As I watched, he began to drum his fingers across his thigh. I began to sweat lightly, dampening the wall behind me. I did not like where this was going.

He sat forward on the edge of his chair, attention focused on me. "I've been controlling them, controlling the world. With the beat," His fingers drummed louder. "Or, more accurately, they've been controlling themselves, keeping themselves down." The fingers stopped. "He's a strange one, your Ianto." Present tense. He was still alive. I hung there, limp with relief, and remembered how to breathe. I wondered what possible connection Ianto and the others could have to the Archangel Network? Maybe there was no connection, except in his screwed-up mind.

"Do you know what he is?" I blinked, surprised at the question. I opened my mouth to give the obvious response, to give myself time to think. He cut me off. "This is no time for lewdness, Jack." He leaned forward, studying my expression intently. "Do you know what Ianto is?" he asked gently. I shook my head mutely, chains clanking. I had no idea what he was asking me.

He snorted slightly. "You've been working with the boy for years, you've been fucking him for six months, and you never noticed anything odd?"

What was he talking about? There was nothing unusual about Ianto. Not that I would mention it if there was.

"Well, if by odd you mean ..."

"No."

"Then, no."

He sighed. "I'll have to ask him, I suppose." He went quiet, slumped slightly in his chair, his gaze wandered over the blank walls. As if he had forgotten I was there. I was tempted to remain silent, maybe then he would forget me completely. I didn't want to die again. I ran my tongue nervously across my lips, and steeled myself. I needed to know what was happening.

"You said you underestimated my team."

"Oh. Right." He sat up, turning his attention back to me. "They've been disobeying my orders."

"They have a tendency to do that." I replied, making my tone wry. Making sense of what he was saying was always difficult. His thoughts seemed to flitter about his mind like moths in a shaken cage.

"They shouldn't be able to. The Network over Roald Dahl Plass in Cardiff is particularly concentrated. Because of the rift, not because of Torchwood Three." He tapped a finger against his chin, staring at me intently. "They should have been able to do nothing but wallow in despair. And follow orders." He sighed again. "I suppose I should have noticed sooner. If the Network was affecting them like it was supposed to, they never would have had the creativity to come up with that wonderfully elegant disease of theirs. And, as it turns out, they didn't. Or if they did, it was never used." He grinned at me. "They conned me, Jack. You must be so proud."

Yes, I was proud. And confused. And dreading what he would do to them in retaliation.

His tone was oddly admiring. "They haven't been killing anything. They've been dismembering their former victims, then adding animal material and waste, and sending that out to the pyres. My burners never suspected anything. They're civilians, after all. Never encountered any live aliens. They didn't notice anything wrong." I knew it! I thought triumphantly. "They've been smuggling the aliens out, hiding them¸ sending them home if they have transport." He sat back in his chair, fingers tented on his lap. "They were careful. They were only discovered by chance, when their van was randomly searched by a group of my soldiers." He snorted, amused. 'Now, that's a good example of karma. The man leading my soldiers used to be on the police force. Apparently, he was resentful enough of Torchwood's high and mighty attitude that he decided to search regardless of the badges they waved at him. He just intended to inconvenience them, I think, despite what he tells me of 'gut instinct.' I'm sure he was surprised at finding the family of Chakas in the boot." He cocked his head to the side, eyes meeting mine. "They shouldn't have been able to defy my orders, Jack." My mouth went dry. "They were being shielded from the Network, Jack. I need to know how he did that."

I burned to know what had happened, had they been caught, are they still alive? Did they manage to escape? I knew he wouldn't tell me if I asked. He was as spiteful as a child. Oblique. I had to be oblique. Subtle.

"How who did it?" I asked.

He huffed. "Have you been listening to me at all, Jack?" he gave a long-suffering sigh. "It was that secretary of yours. Ianto Jones. And you know nothing odd about him." He turned his face away, pretending to examine the wall, but I could see him watching me from the corner of his eye. He said slyly, "I suppose I'll have to ask him myself." I shuddered slightly. The thought of this monster laying his hands on Ianto made me want to throw up. I forced myself to ignore the threat. It was an obvious attempt to get more information out of me, and I had none to give. The only thing I could do at the moment was distract him.

"You think Ianto was blocking the Network?" I asked, injecting my tone with incredulity. "As much as I admire his intelligence, I can't see how it's possible. Why do you think it was him protecting them?" I asked, affecting curiosity whilst I furiously attempted to think of an alternative theory to give him, to switch his attention away from Ianto, from the team. Could the rift be affecting it? No, he knew about the Rift. He would have checked that out already. "It could have been something else. We do have a lot of esoteric equipment. You know, we even have a Transition Modulator."

"You do?" he asked, another change of mood, a kid who unexpectedly discovered it was Christmas.

"In perfect working order."

"I didn't see that when I checked your Inventory," he mused. "I think your Archivist must have hidden some of the more interesting artefacts before I went through it. I may have to have another look." Fuck. "Well, that's something else to ask him about, when I catch up with him." When he catches up with him. For a moment I felt giddy with relief. He hadn't been caught. There would be no interrogation yet. "Anyway, the others have been placed in isolation, and the Network is now affecting them. As Ianto is the only one not under observation, it seems as though he was the one responsible for the obstruction." So he had Tosh, and Gwen and Owen. Oh, God.

He stood up and began to pace back and forth, just outside the line. "The Toclafane managed to scan him while they apprehended the others. He was carrying a few devices. A locator, a gun, a stunner, but he hadn't seemed to be carrying anything capable of this."

I watched him walking, three paces left, stop, turn, three paces right, stop, turn, without breaking the rhythm. . . just out of reach.

"I've had a look at his file. The results of the psy test he received when he joined Torchwood were unusually high." I didn't know. I had only glanced at his file, really. I had hired all my team on gut-instinct alone. "I also read the examiner's notes. She thought he may have been holding back."

He stopped pacing, stood facing the wall to my right, one foot on the trailing edge of the blood spatter. "I don't think your Mr Jones is human, Jack." He snorted to himself. "I think you've been sleeping with the enemy all this time, and you didn't even notice." He turned back to me. "Think about it, Jack. He would have to be at least a psy level 14 on the galactic scale, to block the empathic field as he did. And what is the maximum possible psy level for a human?"

"Eight." I said to myself softly. It would explain a few things, I thought. I suppressed a sharp pang of hurt, that after all we had been through together Ianto would keep such a massive secret from me. I had thought we were past that. He's free, I told myself sternly. He's capable of blocking the network, and he's free. That's all that matters right now.

"I'm going to find him, Jack," he continued. "Don't fool yourself that he's a threat to me. All he's managed to do is allow three people to keep their freedom of action. The alien life-forms they rescued will be caught, and destroyed. All your team did was give them some time, some false hope."

I couldn't take it any longer. I had to know. "What are you going to do with the others?"

He walked closer, standing directly opposite me, staring into my eyes. "They're your pets, aren't they, Jack?" he said, sympathy lacing his tone. "You feed them, look after them, and they love you, worship you in return. I understand." He smiled. He had a beautiful smile. "I have my Lucy Saxon, and the Toclafane. I have you." You don't have me, I thought defiantly. You'll never have me. "Your team is no danger, now that I have them back under control. I'll leave them be." His gaze left my eyes, aimlessly scanning the walls. "Besides, they may come in useful as bait to catch the other." He walked back to his chair again, groaning theatrically as he sat down.

"Now, Ianto Jones is another matter. I'm curious about him." Curious. I went cold at the sound of the word. "I wonder . . . what would he see? What would he hear? I'm sure that _he _has told you the story, Jack. The initiating rites for the time-lords, back home. On Galifrey. We were made to look deep, deep into the void. And it changed us. Some of us ran in fear of what we saw, some of us were inspired, and others went mad. But I . . . I was chosen, Jack. I heard the drums." His tone was dreamy, gaze unfocused. "It's lonely, being the only one able to hear them. No-one understands the lure of their call, the desire to dance, to march to the beat. But something tells me . . . they tell me, that your Mr Jones could hear them too, that he would understand. If he's given a chance." He looked up at me, eyes haunted. "I'm tired of being alone, Jack."

Those words were an echo from the past. I remembered hearing those words before. I was in my office with Ianto, after he had made his surprising proposal over Suzie's prone body. I had asked him why, something I'd never asked before, in that particular situation. And that was what he had told me. He was tired of being alone.

"And I'll give him his chance, Jack, after my men find him. I'll show him the void, and he'll hear it too. He'll understand." The fingers began their tapping again, tap tap tapping in perfect rhythm. "I'd even bring him in to see you, Jack. Wouldn't you like that? I know you've missed him."

I only half heard what he was saying, my mind was occupied with ugly thoughts. Ianto, his beautiful calm fractured, his thoughts splintering and leaking into each-other, driven mad by the incessant drumming. Ianto walking through the doorway to my cell, with another looking out of his eyes. My Ianto, standing above me as I lay prone on a hospital bed, wielding a scalpel over my exposed chest, cutting and slicing, nothing in his eyes but an unfeeling curiosity. Ianto . . .

I clenched my hands slightly, or tried to. I could not tell what they were doing; they were numb, having been chained above my head for so long.

For a dizzy moment I felt as though it was Ianto's cold hands about my wrists, pinning me to the wall in one of his rare playful moods. Ianto's hands were always cold. Poor blood circulation, he told me, when I complained. I, of course, had told him there was nothing wrong with his circulation, and had gone on to demonstrate, case in _point_.

I opened my eyes, not realising until that point that they had been closed, to find _him_ standing there, looking up at me. Close. Close enough. I whipped my legs up, trying to grab him, pull him closer so that I could do some damage. I knew how what teeth could do to bare flesh. I missed grabbing him, instead knocking him to the ground. On my side of the invisible line. Within reach. I stamped down on his head, kicked him again. I heard the crack of his ribs, and saw blood blossom across his face. He was immortal, but it didn't matter. He could still hurt.

And so can I, I thought, as the guards rushed in, as the metal coughed and my body jerked, the darkness closed around me. As I felt the emptiness take me again, I remembered in a final moment of clarity Tosh's words to me, so long ago, a perfect description. .. the great, yawning scream.

* * *

A/N Couldn't resist using that last line. One of the best!

Sorry about the 1st person thing - I don't like using it, but there wasn't really an option here. I wanted to do the whole story without Jack once thinking of him as The Master, so things might have gotten a bit confusing with the 'he said,' 'he said' thing. Does that make sense? Probably not. Anyway...

Please comment! This is only my third story, so I'm still nervous about what people think of my writing. Critizism tells me that you care, and gives me an idea of where I need to improve!

Also, I have a poll going, if you'd like to participate! The question is: if one of the main Torchwood characters had to die a particularly gruesome, PERMANENT death, who would you rather say goodbye to? Go to my Bio to vote - it should show at the top of the screen. If enough people vote, I will write a story about the demise of the 'winner.'

Thanks for reading!


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